


The Splendour of the Stars

by WingedFlight



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Archenland, Calormen, Golden Age (Narnia), M/M, in which Peridan is originally from Calormen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 09:14:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedFlight/pseuds/WingedFlight
Summary: In the aftermath of the battle at Anvard, Aravis learns her brother's fate.





	1. Desert Lizard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/gifts).

* * *

_“My name is Aravis Tarkheena and I am the only daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan, the son of Rishti Tarkaan, the son of Kidrash Tarkaan, the son of Ilsombreh Tisroc, the son of Ardeeb Tisroc who was descended in a right line from the god Tash. My father is the lord of the province of Calavar and is one who has the right of standing on his feet in his shoes before the face of Tisroc himself (may he live forever). My mother (on whom be the peace of the gods) is dead and my father has married another wife. One of my brothers has fallen in battle against the rebels in the far west and the other is a child.” -- _The Horse and His Boy, Chapter 3

* * *

The sun was hot for Archenland, or so the nobles of King Lune’s court repeatedly claimed. Aravis felt the weather a little cool for her liking. A breeze was tickling the trees below her balcony, and sending shivers and goosebumps rising up her arms. There was no breeze inside but her room was no warmer; the stones of the castle walls easily kept the sun’s heat at bay. She wondered if it was the sort of temperature one could get used to after so many years in the hottest provinces of the Empire. 

There was not a great deal from her former life that she was sorry to give up; the scorching heat, though, she already missed terribly.

Her father had always laughed that Aravis was a desert lizard: energized by the sun, and slow when it cooled. Her elder brother would add that her love of the heat was not the only reason she could be called hot-blooded. She missed as well those sly jokes and good-humoured teasing from both her father and brother--but that all had been lost to her for years now. Kidrash Tarkaan had forgotten how to laugh the day the military courier arrived to inform the household that the heir of Calavar had died in battle.

She didn’t really want to think of Rishti now, though the memory was probably inevitable given the events of the last two days. From her balcony, Aravis could see the battlefield where Narnian and Archen troops had together defeated Rabadash and his two hundred horse. It was a very grisly sight. For all her longing to join in the battle, she had never really considered the gruesome aftermath that would always follow: the blood and corpses that now marred the land.

Even so, a part of her wished dearly she could have fought alongside her friend and the brave Northerners. But she also wondered if she could have managed to do so. It was one thing to warn the Northern countries of the coming attack; it would be another to fight her own countrymen, to look into the eyes of those Calormene soldiers and wonder if they had ever fought alongside her brother. 

Aravis pulled her eyes away from the battlefield with effort. Inside the walls, there was a great fuss of slaves--_ no, _ she remembered, _ free servants _ \--setting things up on the lawn. There was to be a great feast that evening, a celebration both of victory and the return of the lost Archen prince. Shasta-- _ no, Cor _\--was going to be very embarrassed. And she was going to be cold, if the feast was indeed to start at sundown. 

She would have to find a wrap. There was probably something suitable in the outfits that Queen Lucy had deftly sourced, but Aravis wasn’t quite prepared to sort through all those yet. It felt too domestic, while a part of her still wanted to mount the nearest horse and keep galloping--not to any particular destination, not anymore, but simply because doing so had been her daily routine for weeks. But with that hint of coolness to the air, Aravis was also happy to just lounge against the balcony’s railing and not move at all. 

_ Desert lizard indeed. _ She’d always liked that comparison. 

The well-coordinated dance of servants on the lawn was not enough to hold her attention. A handful of Archen ladies strolled into view, giggling. Shortly after, some of the large Narnian cats departed the main gate to lope into the forest. She wondered if they were hunting. 

Another group of nobles wandered onto the lawn, both King Edmund and Queen Lucy among the party. Aravis couldn’t tell whether the boy with them was Cor or Corin, until there was a cry as the boy attempted to knock someone down. Corin, then. She was fairly certain the others with them were all Narnians as well, even the dark-skinned human whom she vaguely recalled from the ill-fated encounter with their party in the streets of Tashbaan. At the time, she’d thought maybe the man was a high-ranking Calormene servant and had paid him no mind, but now--now, she was not so sure. Were the stories wrong that everyone from the North had fair skin, or was this a fellow countryman in exile?

If so, she dearly wished to speak with him and learn the events that had brought him North. Not to mention learn how he had adjusted to life in such a very, very different culture. Perhaps she’d meet him at the feast. 

+

To look at Cor, he’d spent hours with the royal tailors that afternoon. For all that he and Corin shared the exact same features, their differences were notable when viewed side by side. It was clear who had eaten his fill all his life, and who had near-starved as the hardworking son of a fisherman. Even if the tailors were starting with some of Corin’s wardrobe, there would be an awful lot of refitting and taking-in to be done. 

But they had succeeded in preparing a very smart outfit for Cor to wear to the feast. Dressed in these bright colours and rich fabrics, Aravis thought he looked miles different from that runaway she’d first met. But his shy smile when he caught her staring was exactly the same. 

As for herself, she’d finally rooted through all the donated outfits to settle on a dress much heavier than she was used to--though there was no denying the wool sleeves were welcome against the night’s chill. She’d chosen the garment for its embroidered pattern of blackbirds, the token animal of Zardeenah. As Aravis had first begun her adventure with a prayer to the goddess, the tribute felt appropriate now as they celebrated its successful conclusion. 

“They’re all looking at me,” Cor said to her, slightly morose. He was right, even though his back was to the milling crowd. 

“With your back turned, they’re staring even more openly,” Aravis told him. “You’d better get used to it.” 

“I know.” He sounded so glum she almost laughed. “Maybe I should find Bree and hide behind him.” 

“Bree would be horrified!” 

Cor’s brow furrowed. “What? Why?” 

“Because using him as a shield means everyone would be looking not at you but at him--and his ragged tail--instead.” 

She received a startled laugh for that one. “Is he still going on about that?” 

“No,” Aravis admitted. “But you know he’s still thinking it.” 

They both laughed. Looking out across the lawn, Aravis saw Bree and Hwin standing together and looking about as awkward as she and Cor felt. Bree had cleverly positioned himself so his tail was hidden against an over-large bush. 

The Narnian army had included other talking horses, though none were nearby at the moment and Aravis hadn’t any idea whether her friends had spoken with them yet. Cor had followed her gaze and was perhaps thinking the same thing, for he decided, “I think Bree could use some attention.” 

When he didn’t yet move, Aravis gave him a nod. “You go ahead. There was someone I wanted to speak with.” 

He looked intrigued but did not ask. It was just a hint of all the ways he’d changed; she still remembered his surly, incessant questions that first night they’d met. He’d been so suspicious of her, and she’d been treating him like dirt in return. Had that really only been a few weeks ago? It felt more like they’d known each other for years. 

“If you can’t find me when you’re done,” he said, “I’ve given up on Bree as a shield and have gone completely into hiding.” 

“If you’re going into hiding, I’m coming with you,” she retorted. He gave her another laugh, and was gone. 

The crowd continued to mill. It was very loud and very merry and also very unlike any sort of party she’d attended before. Perhaps it was a little more wild, she thought--an idea that was underscored by the appearance of a flushed and triumphant Corin.

“The Thunderfist wins again!” he told her, punching the air happily. In the chatter that followed, she gathered he’d gotten into another boxing match, and that the Thunderfist he referenced was his own. Or himself? She wasn’t entirely sure. 

“Corin? Corin.” It took a few tries to get through to him. He was deliriously happy and therefore not really prepared to pay attention to anyone else. “Corin, I’ve got a question for you.” 

At last, he lowered his Thunderfists. “A question for me? Ask away.” 

“I’m just curious. There was a man, a human, I saw with the Narnians earlier. And I think he was with you in Tashbaan? I was just wondering if he was Narnian as well, because he looks like he’s from the South.”

“Lord Peridan, you mean?” asked Corin. “He’s Narnian, all right. Knight of the Noble Order of the Table--those are King’s Edmund’s knights.” 

“Oh,” said Aravis. 

“Peridan Falls is about two days’ ride from our border, actually. It’s very pretty but nothing ever really happens there. Lord Peridan’s usually at Cair Paravel or else travelling with King Edmund. They’ve gone on loads of campaigns together. One day, I’m going to go with them and--”

Aravis cut him off. “I see. I thought maybe he was from Calormen, is all.” 

Corin brightened. “He is, though. Before he became a knight and got his title and everything. But he’s Narnian through and through, now.”

So she’d been correct after all. Aravis felt suddenly shy, although that was not really in her nature. “Do you think he might speak with me?” 

By way of an answer, Corin hooked his arm around hers and yanked Aravis headlong into the crowd. There was a moment of disorientation, of people and animals everywhere, music and laughing and...well, pure _ noise. _ She was jostled briefly as Corin led her right through a group of fauns and dryads dancing with wild abandon (one of whom caught her hand and twirled her about before letting her move on). 

Barely were they free of the dancers than Corin ran headlong into King Edmund, who cut off his conversation to scold the boy about _ looking where you leap _. “Hello, Aravis,” the king added at the end of the lecture, “Are you enjoying the celebration?” 

“Very much, your majesty, thank you,” she said.

Corin’s face lit up. “Hello Lord Peridan,” he exclaimed, looking over Aravis’s shoulder. “We were just looking for you!” 

Flushing a little, because she hadn’t exactly meant for it to sound like she’d been hunting the Narnian lord down, Aravis spun about and came face to face with the man himself. 

It was like falling backward through time. 

Back to Calormen, back to Calavar, back to the courtyard of her father’s house as she said farewell to her brother for the last time. Back to the moment when he cupped her head in his hands, and prayed to the gods to watch over her in his stead. Back to the mingled fear and pride she felt in her chest as he cast one last look over his shoulder to her before riding off to the war that would kill him. 

The war that should have killed him, that she’d believed had killed him, that had not…?

Aravis shook her head. She was confused, she was mistaken, she was imagining things. 

Except Lord Peridan’s eyes had widened, and his lip was trembling, and he slowly lifted his hands to cup her face just like that day so many years before. 

“Aravis?” he whispered. “Sister?”

And she knew it was no mistake. Her brother stood before her, so very alive. “Rishti,” she breathed and, as all the world dropped away, she surged forward into his tight embrace.


	2. The Prisoner and the Rat

* * *

_ I am the man you once knew as Rishti Tarkaan, son of Kidrash Tarkaan, lord of the province of Calavar. In the tenth year of the Tisroc (who will not live forever), I rode with a great company of the Calormen Empire’s army in order to put down a rebellion in the far west. As the heir to my father’s province, it was my duty to ride in the Empire’s army and serve as officer under the great generals. This particular campaign was not my first, though it was the farthest I had ever gone and I knew it could be months before I saw my father’s lands again. Before my departure, I granted to my sister, the most beloved light of my eyes, a suit of armour that I had long outgrown. Her ferocity was beyond any other I knew, and I had plans to train her properly in fighting techniques upon my return.  _

_ But alas, when we arrived in the outer province, the rebels had already retreated to a defensible town in the hills where they managed to hold off our company with surprising success. There were many battles, and some missteps on both sides, and by the end of the fortnight I found myself captured and a prisoner of war in the rebel camp. They did not say as much, but I expected to be interrogated and executed in short order. _

* * *

He was not alone in the rebel’s cells. There was another man in the far corner, curled in on himself and not moving. It was impossible to know how many hours had passed since the rebels had first dumped Rishti into the cell--particularly difficult, what with his head still spinning from the blow that had felled him--but he didn’t think the other man had moved even once in all that time. Maybe he was asleep or unconscious, but he might just as easily be dead. Rishti did not have the strength or motivation to crawl all the way across the cell just to check. 

Besides, they’d both be dead soon enough and their heads sent to the catapults for use as another warning--or scare tactic, he still wasn’t sure. The gruesome memory of that volley of severed heads several days before was particularly horrifying now, nearly enough to have him empty his (near-empty) stomach. Maybe at the time, it had been easier to ignore when his senses were tuned to battle, or maybe he’d just been in shock. He also hadn’t yet been coshed over the head. Rishti had seen stronger men hork up their dinners from standing too fast, if they’d been hit hard enough on the head first.

Gods above and below, he wished he was already dead. Better that than the waiting. The cell was stuffy and stunk terribly. And his head  _ really _ hurt. But the rebels wouldn’t kill him immediately, not after they’d seen the silver band denoting rank on his arm. They’d want to question him, and it wouldn’t matter in the end if he didn’t want to answer. 

He was contemplating the upcoming interrogation when a movement caught his attention. The man across the cell wasn’t dead after all. He stretched out his legs, rolled his neck with a loud crack, and fell still again. As dark as their cell was, Rishti could not see much of the man at all and therefore had no idea if he was another officer or a lowly foot soldier. He supposed it didn’t really matter. 

“First rate establishment, this,” observed the man. “They’ve really committed to the dour aesthetic. Could use a window, though. Do you know the time?” 

The time? Rishti had lost all sense of time. It had been past midnight when he and a small party had been caught attempting to circle the town. They’d fought, and had broken and run, and been cornered and fought again. “I think it was near dawn when they brought me here. I don’t know how long ago.” 

“I suppose it doesn’t make much of a difference,” the man conceded. “Things will happen when they do.” He rolled his neck again, and then set to cracking each of his fingers. The sound was very grisly. 

“Have you been here long?” asked Rishti.

The question was an attempt to distract the man from the finger cracking, and it failed. He made sure to get every single one of his ten fingers  _ before _ providing his answer. “Could have been a day before you arrived. Maybe two. I saw the whole thing with the heads, so it wasn’t before that.” 

“If you’d been captured before that, you’d have been one of the heads.” 

“Yes, that did occur to me.” He slowly pulled his legs back up, knees to chest, and returned to being still as a corpse. 

After a minute or so, Rishti said, “That would have been three days before I was captured.” 

“Oh.” The man sounded vaguely surprised, and almost pleased. “Three days. That’s not so bad.” 

“Not so bad as one or two? Isn’t it worse?” 

But the man didn’t answer. If it really had been over three days, maybe he was weak from lack of proper food. Were the rebels even bothering to feed their prisoners? Or did they count it as a waste of good resources better put elsewhere? 

A few minutes passed in silence. Rishti’s mind began to turn back to the inevitable interrogation. He liked to think he’d be able to hold out and keep his army’s plans and strategies secret. He also knew there were ways to make any man break. Would it help to plan ahead so he would only give away those next-to-useless bits of information that wouldn’t entirely compromise his side? Or would doing so count as the act of a traitor? 

Almost as an afterthought, the other prisoner spoke up: “If you see a rat, let me know.” 

+

More time passed, as unmeasurable as before. Three times, Rishti heard the heavy boots of the rebel’s gaoler stride down the hall, and three times, the gaoler chose another cell to open. The whole building was oppressively quiet, like every single occupant was holding their breaths in unified anticipation of the worst. There were no screams, no whimpering. If there really were torture and interrogation being done, it was not here at the gaol. 

“I think I’m going to have to enlist your help,” decided the other prisoner at last. 

Rishti looked up. He had been trying to recall his mother’s favourite line of poetry, mostly because he’d realized he couldn’t remember.  _ He who watches the night… watches stars...watches sky?  _ Watches something, anyway. “Help with what?” 

“Standing,” the man admitted. “My foot’s not doing well.” 

Rishti squinted through the shadows. Was that why the man had hardly moved in all this time, to avoid jostling his foot? “Good thing there’s no reason to stand.” Not until someone came and took them away, and then Rishti wouldn’t be in much of a position to help at all. Did the man not realize? Maybe he was becoming delirious from lack of food, or maybe the foot had given him an infection and a fever. 

“Not yet,” the man agreed. 

As if he’d tempted fate with his words, the gaoler’s boots began thudding down the hall again. Rishti shot the man a poisonous look, although of course it wasn’t really his fault at all, and then turned his attention to the door. If it opened, that was it. There was nothing he could do. He was unarmed and his head still pounded, and there was no way he could win a fight. He’d try anyway, because better to struggle than to go willingly, but there was no way he’d win.

The boots passed by.

But he looked at the door a moment longer, because something seemed to be moving in the thin eye-level slit. Something twitchy. Something with whiskers and paws and sleek black fur, that pulled itself up through the slit and scampered easily back down to the floor to run across the cell. 

The other prisoner had seen it, too. He held out a hand, knuckles to the floor. The rat scurried right up to him and dropped something gold and glittering into his palm. 

“...You meant an actual rat,” said Rishti, hardly believing what he’d just seen. The rat in question was uncommonly large, and looking at him almost as though it understood his words. 

The man lifted his hand to study the key. “Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?” 

A traitor, a spiller of secrets, a coward. A warning against answering the interrogator’s questions. Not an actual, real rat carrying a literal, physical key to their escape. Rishti didn’t think rats could even do that, except in the stories. And most of those stories had been about… 

Again, he tried to peer through the darkness. “Who are you?” 

“Are you going to help me stand or not?” retorted the man. 

Rishti looked at him a moment longer, and then rose carefully. As predicted, his head did not enjoy the movement, but the pain was manageable. He crossed the cell, careful not to trod on the rat, and bent down to arrange the man’s arm over his shoulder. They stood together. The man wobbled a little as he tested placing weight on his right foot, the muscles in his arm tensing with the effort. 

“To the door?” Rishti prodded. 

The rat had scurried ahead and sat waiting at the door, its ears and whiskers twitching wildly. “Wait,” said the man and, a moment later, Rishti heard the gaoler’s boots thudding back down the hall the way they had come. Tash above, he’d forgotten all about the gaoler, and now his spine ran cold at the thought of what might have happened if they’d stepped from their cell only to meet the guard in the hall. 

The man did not move in all that time, though Rishti could still feel the tremble of effort in his arm. “To the door,” he said at last, after the boots had gone and all was quiet again. 

Once at the door, the man helped the rat back through the eye-level slit. He peered out into the hall, which was just as dark as the cell, and then threaded his arm (the one not slung over Rishti’s shoulder) carefully through the hole. It was a tight fit, and he had to press his shoulder right up against the slit in order to reach the lock on the other side. There followed some brief maneuvering to fit the key into the lock--surely not an easy task without the benefit of sight--and then a click, and the door budged inward. 

Rishti helped his companion extricate his arm from the door. There followed another moment of breathless waiting, until the rat in the hall squeaked softly. This was apparently an all-clear, for the man proceeded to pull the door open. 

They did not stop to free the other prisoners. 

Rishti expected he would feel guilty about that, later. At this moment, however, he had to be practical. The gaoler could return at any time, and neither he nor his strange companion (nor his companion’s rat, for that matter) had the ability to defend themselves. Their opportunity for escape would be lost, if they were not simply killed outright for the attempt. As they stumbled their way along the corridor, he reasoned that he could always return for the others once he’d found a proper weapon. Even if he couldn’t fight well due to his head, he could at least try.

But his companion had another plan. At the end of the corridor, when there was only an unlocked door between them and the rest of the rebel town, the man pulled Rishti to a halt. He leaned against the cell to their left, peered inside, and then pushed something through the slit. The key landed on the cell’s stone floor with a bright clang. 

“Do not tarry,” the man told the prisoner within, “Free the others. Gods be with you.” And then, nudging Rishti, he continued on to the main door. 

“We’ll have but a moment,” the man said. “The distraction will be brief, barely long enough for us to get outside and find cover. We go left. Do you understand?” 

The air of command suited him well. Even if Rishti had wanted to debate tactics, he wasn’t sure he would have dared. Whoever the man was, he expected his orders to be followed. No lowly foot soldier here, that was for sure. 

“I understand,” said Rishti. 

The man took hold of the door’s latch and waited. Rishti braced himself. The rat had disappeared, probably outside the gaol to arrange for the distraction. How had it come to this, that Rishti placed his faith--and his life--in a mere rat?

Shouts arose in the distance. Rishti’s companion began counting under his breath: “Three…” 

The sound of trampling footsteps and rattling metal passed by the door.

“...two…” 

A bell began to toll. 

“...one…” 

Something squeaked outside.  _ The rat. _

“Go,” ordered the man. His thumb depressed the latch as he spoke, and he yanked the door inward. In the flare of painful blinding sunlight, Rishti could see nothing at all. There could have been an entire roster of rebel soldiers lined up and waiting for them, and he wouldn’t know. But he had trusted his companion this far and not yet been led astray. 

_ To the left. Find cover.  _

And so Rishti, with the man’s arm still tight over his shoulders, stepped outside and to the left. 


	3. Testing the Blade

* * *

_ To Kidrash Tarkaan, esteemed lord of the Calavar province, _

_ It is our regret to inform you of the death of your son and heir, Rishti Tarkaan of Calavar, at the hands of the rebel forces. Be comforted with the knowledge that your son fought and died with all the glory of Tash the Inexorable and that his name will be inscribed in the scrolls of remembrance kept in the house of the Tisroc (may he live forever) until the end of days. _

* * *

“But I saw the letter,” said Aravis at last. She had not meant to interrupt her brother’s tale, for such a thing was impoliteness itself among Calormene storytellers, but the sentiment had been welling within her until at last she could keep it in no longer. “They said you died in battle. That you fought with the glory of Tash himself.” 

They’d found a private alcove for themselves in the heart of the castle. What with the continuous noise of the celebration outside, Rishti had said it unlikely anyone--noble or servant, Archen or Narnian--would be passing through this particular hall for a long while yet. Even if anyone did come, there would be no interruption. Northerners were every bit as circumspect as Calormenes in that regard.

For all that he’d apparently embraced his new life in Narnia, Rishti remembered well the art of Calormene storytelling. They both sat on the floor. His legs were crossed, his back straight, his hands clasped in his lap. His words were quiet but eloquent, exactly as she remembered. At her interruption, he paused--pulling his mind out of the story, considering her question. “They likely didn’t know what had happened to me. Or maybe they did know I’d been captured, and wished to spare our father the pain of disgrace.” 

“Capture is not a disgrace!” she retorted indignantly. 

“It shouldn’t be,” he allowed, “But desertion surely is.” 

She could not argue that point. “Why did you go?” she asked softly, plaintively. “Why didn’t you return to the army? Or home?” 

_ Or me, _ is what she meant, and Rishti knew it. He leaned forward to take her hand. “I wanted to,” he offered. “I really did. But I was called elsewhere.” 

She studied his face, that oh-so-familiar face. It had changed, of course, over the years as he grew older. There was a scar that cut through his lower lip, now. And he was styling his hair differently, so it hung in loose curls past his ears. But it was still him, still her brother, and she could still read his expressions as easily as a scroll. “You met Aslan.” 

He leaned back again. “I should not be surprised, given what I heard of Cor’s adventure--which, I realize, was yours as well. You’ve met him, too?” 

“I admit I don’t really know what to think of him, yet. He spoke with me only yesterday at the hermitage. He said he’d been guiding Sha--Cor and I the whole way North. But he’s not--” She stopped, unable to figure out how to put her confusion into words. 

“Not a Calormene god?” Rishti finished. He understood. Of course he understood. “I have felt the same struggle, sister. If I follow the Lion, am I turning my back on those who had guided and protected me and my family for our entire lives?” 

He was right, that was the exact question she was trying to untangle. “What did you decide?” And then, still reading his face, she realized, “It’s a part of the story, isn’t it?” 

With a smile at her perceptiveness, Rishti drew his hands back into his lap, straightened his shoulders, and continued his tale.

* * *

Later, Rishti would learn that his companion from the gaol had meant for them to part ways long before leaving the rebel town. He’d needed Rishti’s help only until he reached the rescue party, which should have occurred within minutes of bursting from the gaol and finding cover nearby. But, as the poets were fond of saying, _ Even the best laid plans may not come to fruition. _The man’s rescuers were delayed and it was not safe to wait for them in the town. The rat had returned to them and knew their intended route through the hills. The man’s only obstacle to leaving immediately was his injured foot and, for that reason and that reason alone, he needed to keep Rishti literally at his side.

There was no time to stop and hunt for weapons, though the rat disappeared long enough to find a single dagger. The man tucked it into his boot, which was probably just as well. Rishti didn’t like the idea of falling onto the blade if they lost their balance, or if the man decided he could go the rest of the distance alone. 

He may have been a prisoner of the rebels, but this man was no Calormene. He had the fair skin found just as easily among the island territories as the independent Northern countries, but clever rats only ever came from one place. As they passed quietly from the town and out into the hills, Rishti again recalled the stories he’d heard of the Northern kingdom overrun by demons in the shape of talking animals. The rat hadn’t yet said a word, but Rishti was growing certain it could if it so desired. 

They travelled in silence. Rishti feared pursuit by the rebels. His companion was also wary of the Calormene army. The rat acted as their scout, questing ahead and returning to lead their way along unwatched paths. The sun had been falling towards the horizon when they’d escaped the gaol, and disappeared quickly behind the far-off mountain range on the left. Now, as they walked, the moon was steadily climbing.

Questions tumbled through Rishti’s mind as they travelled, so many that he couldn’t quite put any into words. He resorted to studying the man through stolen glances instead, putting together an impression of dark hair and sharp cheekbones and furrowed brow. Once, the man caught Rishti’s sideways glance with a look of his own. His eyes were sharp with appraisal. 

The further they went, the more certain Rishti became that it was time for them to part ways. He had to find his way back to the army, while his companion clearly had another destination in mind. But every time Rishti opened his mouth to announce his intentions, the words caught on his tongue. He didn’t entirely know why. Perhaps he was too weary, or perhaps too curious. If he left now, he’d never learn how his companion had ended up in the gaol or why he’d come to Calormen in the first place. Too much about this man was a mystery, and Rishti wanted to uncover all of his secrets. 

“We’re here,” the man decided at last, after hours of nothing but the same. Rishti could not see anything about this particular spot that was different from the rest of the hills. He lowered the man down onto the root of a cypress tree, then stepped back to shake out his shoulders. His stomach was churning and his head was on fire, thanks to the heat and the constant movement and the lack of food. The wound on his temple had swollen into a large lump that made him nearly swoon when he touched it.

He ought to leave, now that they’d successfully completed their escape, but it was easier to simply sit in the grass at the man’s side. Rishti decided he’d wait a spell, just long enough to see if his head would stop pounding, before returning to his commanders. 

The man was inspecting his foot--or rather, was prodding it tentatively through the leather of his boot. Without looking over, he said, “I don’t know your name.” 

“Rishti of Calavar.” He wasn’t sure why he left off his title. _ Rishti _was not a common name, and if the man knew anything at all of the Calormene lords, he would know immediately he sat in the presence of a great Tarkaan’s heir. Maybe he left it off because, after spending a day in a dirty stinking cell dreading an upcoming execution and then hobbling together for hours in a tense (but ultimately uneventful) escape through the foothills, it felt as though they’d moved beyond titles. 

Apparently, his companion felt the same for he said in response, “Edmund.” A pause and then, so nonchalantly that it was anything but, he added, “Of Narnia.” 

_ Edmund _ , like _ Rishti _, was not a common name. No title was necessary for Rishti to know exactly who this man was. 

There were a lot of things Rishti could, even should, do with this information. Leave immediately--that was the most obvious--and return to the army, forgetting the name of the man as best he could. Or return to the army and report everything that had occurred, including the fact that a foreign sovereign had been messing about in rebel--and therefore Calormene--affairs. Or return to the army with the foreign sovereign as his prisoner, which _ shouldn’t _ be too difficult what with the man’s injury but likely _ would _ be difficult what with Rishti’s injury, not to mention the knife still in the man’s boot. 

Except the knife was no longer in the man’s boot. He’d pulled it out while inspecting his foot, and was now carefully looking over the blade. “The Calormene army would greatly appreciate and honour any man who could successfully capture and deliver a foreign national up to no good in the Empire,” the man observed. He was testing Rishti as surely as he was testing the blade of his dagger. 

Rishti stared at him for a long time, and then looked about the little valley where they’d stopped. The rat had vanished again. It was just the two of them. The two of them, and a dagger, and a decision. 

He remembered, quite suddenly, that line of poetry he’d been struggling to recall while in the cell: _ He who watches for the dawn misses the splendour of the stars. _ It had been his mother’s favourite because it meant so many things. Like, _ don’t miss what’s happening now because you’re too focused on what might happen later. _ Or even, _ the way you do things matters as much as why you do them. _

At last, Rishti said, “I’ll have to keep watch for any foreign nationals up to no good, then.” 

Something flashed across the man’s face. Surprise? Approval? But all he said was, “I’ll let you know if I see any.” 

+

The delayed rescue party finally caught up with them as the moon reached its zenith. Rishti and his fellow escapee spent the majority of that time not talking, just sitting and resting and thinking. Finally, Rishti asked what had brought Edmund of Narnia to a rebel cell in the first place. Edmund of Narnia explained that the more unrest within the Empire, the less of the Tisroc’s attention could be turned toward invading the small independent countries on its border. Theoretically speaking, it would be in the best interest of those small independent countries to support any such circumstances of unrest. Unfortunately, in this case, the rebels were as distrusting of small independent countries as they were of great empires, and had thrown Edmund of Narnia into a cell until further notice. 

“I don’t think they had decided what to do with me yet,” the man said, thoughtfully. “There were more pressing matters at hand.” 

“But what if they’d decided to execute you before your rat came?” 

“They wouldn’t.” And at Rishti’s skeptical look, he added defensively, “I’m very good at talking my way out of things.” 

“As good as you are at talking your way into a cell?” asked a new voice. 

Rishti looked up. On the hill above them stood the silhouette of a fox against the moonlit sky. At this point, after all that had occurred, Rishti was hardly surprised to realize the fox herself was the source of the voice. Having made her wry entrance, she proceeded to lope gently down to join them. 

There was no hiding Edmund of Narnia’s relief as he greeted her. He called her _ friend, _ and scratched her head, and then asked, “Any trouble? The others?” 

“Only in the town itself,” answered the fox. “We had to give the rebels a bit more of a runaround than expected. And then there was the whole chaos as the rest of the prisoners escaped, so we did another runaround until they were safely off to their army. The others will be here shortly. Is this him, then?” 

On Rishti’s behalf, the man introduced him: “Rishti of Calavar.”

“Cadenza of Narnia,” replied the fox. “We greatly appreciate your aid.” 

“Yes, I already said thank you,” said the man with just a touch of surliness, as if he’d been told off by his mother. Then he frowned, realizing perhaps that he actually hadn’t done any such thing, and told Rishti, “Didn’t I?” 

“Without you, I would still be in a cell,” Rishti pointed out. “Or worse. I should be thanking you.” 

He could have sworn the fox rolled her eyes at them both, but this particular discussion was cut short by the _ others _ Cadenza had referred to. There was another fox, an overlarge raven perched on his shoulder, and of course the rat. Or, as they were known, Canto, Sallowpad, and Fran.

“Sorry for the subterfuge,” said the rat. “Calormenes don’t tend to take kindly to talking rats.” 

Most Calormenes wouldn’t take kindly to any sort of talking animal: rat, fox, bird, or otherwise. Rishti politely did not say as much. 

In turn, the animals provided their reports, expanding upon Cadenza’s succinct summary of the events in the rebel’s town. A majority of the prisoners had successfully escaped back to the army, but not all. The rebels were, predictably, very angry and had resorted to taking out this anger on the Calormene army. If they did suspect any of the escapees had not returned to the army’s camp, they did not care enough to do anything about it. No pursuit had ventured out into the foothills. 

“That is quite a relief,” said Edmund at last. “But we should still keep moving. We’ll start again soon.”

The unofficial meeting adjourned and the animals spread out in each direction to keep watch. Rishti closed his eyes. He had kept quiet all through the Narnians’ discussion, but he knew none of them had forgotten his presence. That they spoke of tactical assessments and strategies so openly around him was not a particularly good sign--nor was the fact that they’d let him meet the whole party at all. 

So it was only to be predicted when, as the moon started her descent, Edmund turned to Rishti and said apologetically, “I really am grateful for your assistance, but I’m afraid I can’t let you return to your army.” 

Rishti looked at him, half expecting the man to be holding the dagger again. The weapon was nowhere to be seen. “Are you going to do it?” he asked. “Or is this a job for your foxes?” 

“You’ve seen too much of us,” continued Edmund, running through an explanation Rishti had already reasoned out, “And I can’t have you reporting my presence to--do what?” He blinked, momentarily disconcerted as Rishti’s words caught up to him. “What, you think I’m going to kill you after I saved your life?” 

“I saved your life,” Rishti pointed out. “We’re already even.” 

“So you think I’m going to kill you after we both saved each other’s lives?” 

“Didn’t you just say you couldn’t risk me reporting on your whereabouts to my superiors?” 

Edmund blinked again. “I just meant we were bringing you with us. At least until we’re far enough that, by the time you did return to your army, we Narnians would be well and truly away. Another day’s travel. Maybe two, given my foot.” 

It seemed to Rishti a very impractical decision, but he wasn’t about to argue the point. “Maybe you just don’t want to give up your most convenient crutch.” 

Edmund looked down ruefully at his foot. “Well, yes, that too,” he said with the hint of a grin. “And as you are offering…” He lifted his arm and waited. 

Rishti went to his side and let the king’s arm fall over his shoulders once more. Together, they stood. One by one, the animals crept back down into the valley, and the party resumed their journey northward.


	4. Fine Taste

* * *

_ After two days, we came to the end of the hills and the beginning of a modest farm. It had been abandoned years before, due to all the rebel activity, which made it a very good location to regroup in preparation of a desert crossing. The Narnians had already stashed supplies for that return journey, as well as two camels--dumb beasts, both. When I asked why there were two, the king told me it was always better to be overprepared. Then he informed me we would all spend the night in the farmhouse, and go our separate ways come morn. _

+

“He went back on his word?” 

Once again, Aravis’s exclamation pulled Rishti from his tale. He sat blinking at her like a bewildered owl until she clarified, “King Edmund. He said he would let you go after two days.” 

Her brother smiled a little at her indignation. “It was not exactly a promise he’d made,” Rishti assured her, “And he was correct in his estimate on how long it would take us to reach his next destination.”

“But you didn’t go your separate ways.” She stared at him hard. “Either he lied and went back on his word, or you--” 

But for this, Rishti could give her no satisfactory answers. “I had a dream,” he said only, “And when morning came, I took the second camel and went with the Narnians into the desert.” 

* * *

It had been the dream that cemented Rishti’s decision to continue northward, but the decision itself had come in the hours before sleep. Despite the exertion of a near three day trek, much of which involved literally supporting his wounded companion, Rishti did not retire immediately. Instead, he sat up for a long while with the king, sharing a bottle of amber rum that had been stored with the supplies. 

The foxes had slipped away into the night without a word, likely to patrol the perimeter. Fran had disappeared as well. As for Sallowpad, the bird had found a perch in the rafters and immediately tucked his head beneath his wing in semblance of sleep. Appearances aside, Rishti expected the bird remained well aware of the room below, and would note every word exchanged between the humans. Not that, for the moment, there were any words to be overheard.

Just as shared hardship in a rebel gaol had a way of erasing the need for titles, so did a long and limping journey erase any need to talk aloud. There were no cups, so the men passed the bottle back and forth between them. Rishti was imagining his return to the army and the subsequent debriefing which would be akin to an interrogation in its own right. Certainly not as harsh nor as deadly as any questioning at the hands of the rebels would have been--but not easy, either. 

His commanders would wish to learn every detail he had gleaned of the Narnian king.  _ Why had he been there, what was his purpose, who was he with, what was he doing? _ And the harder questions, the ones that could put Rishti under an awful lot of suspicion if answered incorrectly:  _ How did you learn his identity, what were his strategies, why did he bring you along, why not kill you, why didn’t you escape in the foothills? _

Why  _ hadn’t _ he run off in the hills? That was a very good question indeed, and one that had been privately plaguing Rishti for a long while now. The excuse he had used, even to himself, was that the foxes wouldn’t let him. But he was an officer of the Calormene army, well trained in both fighting and improvisation. Two foxes, even two abnormally-large talking foxes of Narnia, shouldn’t really have been enough to stop him if he was motivated. 

The bottle clinked against the stone floor between him and the king. Without looking, Rishti reached for it. Their fingers touched, and Edmund let his hand linger before pulling away. Rishti brought the bottle to his lips and took a deep swig. 

“I think I met your father once,” said Edmund musingly. 

“My father?” From anyone else, such a statement would have been announced with a sense of pride or awe--and probably brought up at the earliest possible moment upon learning Rishti’s identity as the great Tarkaan’s esteemed son. But this was not anyone else, this was a foreign sovereign who had likely met quite a number of Tarkaans and other high-ranking nobles.

The Tarkaan’s esteemed son handed the bottle back to the foreign sovereign. Edmund tipped it to his lips, his eyes distant with recollection. “It was during my first visit to Tashbaan. We were introduced during a party in the Tisroc’s garden.” He omitted the honorific which would have horrified Rishti more before the consumption of the rum, and three days surrounded by Narnians beforehand. “We had a very interesting discussion regarding the cocoa crisis, this being only shortly after the hurricane in the Lone Islands. Your father offered a very well thought out, nuanced perspective. What’s the matter?”

Rishti hadn’t realized he was frowning. “That hurricane was nearly five years ago. Meaning no disrespect but… you do not seem much older than I. Was this before your… uh…” 

There was a long pause as Rishti failed to come up with an oblique reference to the man’s coronation. Edmund took the opportunity to enjoy another swallow of rum before putting him out of his misery. “It was not only my first visit to Tashbaan, but the first visit of any Narnian sovereign in over a hundred years. As you can imagine, there was quite a spectacle.” 

“Tashbaan is always a spectacle,” Rishti countered. His mind was still sputtering at the thought of his father having a nuanced discussion with the king beside him. He could not imagine the two of them getting along at all. In fact, Rishti thought his father would be very unhappy indeed to learn of his son sharing rum with the king of Narnia on the floor of an abandoned farmhouse on the edge of the empire. It was not exactly the sort of thing the son of a great Tarkaan should do. 

Maybe it was the rum doing his thinking for him but, at this particular moment, Rishti found he did not actually care whether his father would approve or not. 

He reached for the rum, and Edmund passed the bottle back over. Their hands touched again, their eyes caught, and Rishti felt the full weight of the other man’s attention. 

He pulled away. Needing somewhere else to focus, Rishti studied the golden liquor through the smoky glass of its bottle. Pensively, he swirled it and then commented, “From the spectacles of Tashbaan to the gaol of a rebel-occupied town. Your travel destinations are quite diverse.” 

“Are you questioning my taste?” 

Rishti lifted the bottle, still deliberately avoiding Edmund’s gaze. “With rum as fine as this, not at all.” 

Even after the amount he’d already consumed, the mouthful was hot as it slid down his throat. Rishti let himself sink into that heat, and the courage contained within. He set the bottle aside, and let his eyes slide back to his companion. 

When their hands met again, neither pulled away.

+

When he finally did fall asleep much later, hot and breathless, pleased and confused, Rishti dreamed of the Great Desert. He saw the talking animals that accompanied the Narnian king: Cadenza in the lead, Fran on Canto’s shoulder, and Sallowpad wheeling overhead. He saw the two camels that had been waiting in the farmhouse, one carrying the king. 

An orange cat had joined their party and was walking back from Cadenza past Canto and Fran, beneath the camels, until at last he came to Rishti. “If you don’t go now,” the cat warned, “you won’t go at all.” 

But Rishti looked back over his shoulder. In the way of dreams, he saw his father’s house there. And closer, in the sand between him and the house, a little lizard was basking on a stone. 

“But what about my family?” he asked the cat. “My father, and my sister?” 

A night-black bird--not Sallowpad, but another--swooped down from the sky to alight beside the lizard. “We will watch your sister,” she promised, “And when the time comes, we will send her to you.” 


	5. A Purpose Unknown

* * *

_ I accompanied the king all the way to Narnia--and, as you know, a long journey like that inevitably involves quite a few smaller adventures along the way. And then we got to Narnia, and rode all the way across the country because Cair Paravel is on the Eastern Sea and we were still in the west. We did not rush to cross the country, and the king took the time to introduce to me his land and his peoples. _

_ In the span of that crossing, I came to love the rolling green hills and dense forests, the thick streams and heavy rains. I came to love the many peoples and beasts that dwelled throughout the land. And I came to love the man they call the Just King. _

_ I will not deny that I have been more happy since arriving in this foreign land than ever in my prior life. But I assure you, sister, that I also did most terribly grieve our parting and long for the day promised by the Bird of Night: the day when we would be reunited at last. So also did I long for the words and wisdom of my father the Tarkaan of Calavar, until at last I wrote to him a detailed letter of the events that had led me from the cell of the rebels to the wild and glorious North.  _

_ I received only one line in return: _

_ “My son and heir is dead to me and before the gods.” _

+

Her brother’s face was haunted as he recalled his father’s letter. 

“So he knew?” asked Aravis. “All this time, he knew you were in Narnia, alive and well?” 

“Not alive,” corrected Rishti, “Not to him. Not anymore. In his eyes, I had betrayed everything that mattered to him: country, gods, and family.” 

He was avoiding her eyes, anticipating her next question. Softly, Aravis added, “And what of me? Did you not think I might like to know my brother lived?” 

“Your brother the deserter?” His voice was scornful, not of her but of himself. “You have always been fiercely loyal. I suppose I was afraid you also would prefer to think me dead.” 

“Fiercely loyal to you,” she countered. “And I would have preferred the truth.”

He took a breath, and then lifted his gaze. “I could not risk it,” he admitted, “A rejection from my beloved sister would have been too much to bear.” 

Her brother had a good life here in the North. She’d barely seen any of it yet, but the influence of the Northerners--and King Edmund, especially--simply shone from her brother. She could not wait to see everything about it, meet every person, see every sight. Yet he’d carried the weight of his father’s disapproval all these years. No wonder he’d refrained from writing to her as well.

Aravis wanted to weep for him, but settled for saying, “I wish, brother, that I could tell you those were not the words of our father. But he did change after we’d learned that we’d lost you. Not that it was the report of your death that caused the change, not entirely.” Again, she reached across the space between them to wrap her hands around his. She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I am not fond of our stepmother, whom you only knew briefly, and would not hesitate to believe she had something to do with it. But I don’t think it was all intentional, either. She enjoys the parties of Tashbaan, and so our father travels to the capital more often on her account. And our stepmother--well, those parties she most favours are the sort attended by the politically ambitious. And in Tashbaan these days, it does not seem to be common among those politically ambitious to view favourably the North, and Narnia especially.” 

“Who are you--wise, fair and considerate creature--and what have you done with my hot-tempered sister?” 

A smile flashed across her face. “Don’t worry,” she assured him, “I am still furious on the inside. But I have been learning over the last few weeks to… to slow my judgement. Perceptions are not always truths.” 

“Your cellmate in a prison might turn out to be a king?” 

“Or the runaway fisherman’s son might be the heir to a kingdom.” They both laughed, and then she continued, “Not that we should excuse anyone for their actions, but--why are you looking at me like that?” 

Rishti ducked his head. “I am marvelling at your self-improvement, and also thinking that you would get along with Edmund very well.” 

She was quite looking forward to meeting King Edmund again, now that she’d heard all about how he’d rescued her brother and been rescued in return. Not to mention the whole knighting business, and the fact that he’d given her brother a title and land to replace that which he’d lost. Which, come to think of it-- “You still need to tell me about how you became a knight.” 

Rishti looked embarrassed. “It was hardly anything at all. Besides, the night is passing fast and you are still worn from your own adventure, I can see. I don’t know that you would stay awake for another tale.” 

She made a face at him. “Which is it, brother? Hardly anything, or too long a tale?” 

He leveled a humoured glare at her. “To bed with you. We will have plenty of time for further storytelling in the days to come.” 

* * *

Morning had deepened into afternoon by the time Aravis emerged from her chambers the day following the feast. The wild music of the celebration had still been playing out on the lawn when she’d parted ways with her brother in those early hours of the morning. Her mind had been spinning with all the details of his story. She still wasn’t sure what to think about it all, and had lain awake for a long while trying to sort through her feelings. 

She felt very confused. Aravis hated feeling confused. 

Now, the halls of Anvard were very empty, and those she did see were rather subdued. Aravis supposed most people were still sleeping off the celebration. When it came to hangovers, it seemed Northerners and Calormenes were very alike indeed.

Although a plate had been set out in her room that Aravis had devoured immediately upon waking, she made a stop in the kitchens before venturing outdoors. The weather was even cooler today, the sky overcast as though the sun also wished it were still in bed. A breeze cut across the lawn, and she caught sight of a bird wheeling overhead. She thought it might be Sallowpad, though she was too far away to tell for certain. 

The Horses were waiting for her in a little copse near the outer wall. Aravis greeted them both and held out her hands palms-up.

“Sugar cubes!” Bree exclaimed, ears flicking about in excitement. “You, my dear Tarkeena, are most kind indeed.” 

“Most kind,” Hwin agreed, nuzzling Aravis’s shoulder before gently taking the offered cube. 

There followed a moment of simple, delighted pleasure as the two horses enjoyed their treat, which Bree predictably spoiled with a reflection that he may have just enjoyed his very last sugar cube. 

“Absolutely not,” Aravis countered. “I can promise you right now that I will bring sugar cubes whenever I visit.” 

Bree was so happy with that proclamation, he left her side to trot merrily around the copse. Aravis and Hwin fondly watched him go, before the mare finally turned back to her girl. “You have had quite a night,” Hwin observed in her soft, unassuming manner. “Did you wish to speak of it?” 

“You always see right through me.” When her laugh became a caught sob, Hwin took a step closer and Aravis buried her face into her soft mane. Standing there, in the comfort of Hwin’s presence, Aravis said, “My brother is not dead.” 

“So I have heard,” admitted the mare. “And you are torn.” 

Aravis pulled away and wiped her sleeve over her eyes. Through the trees behind Hwin, Bree had cantered off across the lawn to greet Cor and his twin. She wondered if Hwin had told Bree to give them space before Aravis had even arrived. 

It had been an awfully long time since Aravis and Hwin had spent a proper moment alone. With the shelter of the trees around them, it was like they’d been cast all the way back to that morning in the woods when they’d first properly met. There was no dagger in Aravis’s hands now, no saddle upon Hwin’s back, no invisible restraints tying them to a life of captivity. Soon, Aravis knew, Hwin would leave with Bree to finish the journey to her ancestral home. 

But for now, it was the two of them alone together in the trees. 

“I idolized him,” Aravis said. “I believed he rode off to war and died in battle. I was so angry--angry at him for leaving, angry at my father for turning from me in his grief, angry at the Empire itself for taking my brother away. But at least I could hold onto the fact that my brother had died a hero. And now--” Her words caught in her throat. Hwin nuzzled her again until she could continue, “Now I learn that he was alive this whole time and I--” 

Again, her throat closed. Gently, Hwin said, “You feel betrayed.” 

Aravis nodded miserably. 

“You are happy and you are hurt and you are angry all at once.” 

Were all Narnian mares this perceptive? Aravis nodded again, and added, “Why couldn’t he have come home first, and gone North later if he so wished to see Narnia?” 

“Perhaps he felt he couldn’t. Perhaps he felt as trapped by his life as you did by yours. Perhaps--” The mare stopped, whinnied a little, and backed up a step. 

Aravis knew Hwin well enough to recognize the mare had something more to say. “Out with it, Hwin. What are you thinking?” 

“Well,” said Hwin slowly, “I would never presume to guess Aslan’s intentions but… well, it occurs to me that if you had not believed your brother dead, you might never have joined me to travel North, and we might never have met Shasta and Bree on the road, and--” 

“And there would have been no warning of Rabadash’s attack,” finished Aravis. 

There was silence between the two of them as both mulled it over. 

“I don’t know that it makes sense,” said Hwin at last. 

“I don’t know that the gods ever make sense,” responded Aravis. She was remembering the account of Rishti’s dream, of the golden cat telling him to leave immediately and the night-black bird--or, as her brother had thought, Aslan and Zardeenah--promising to send Aravis later. That led to thinking on the Lion’s reminder that she had hurt others in the manner of her departure. Had it really been any different with Rishti? She’s been hurt by his leaving just as she’d hurt the slave girl. Not that it was right for either of them to have caused hurt through their departure--rather, it seemed to Aravis another reminder that she should not merely acknowledge the hurt she had caused without attempting in some manner to make amends.

“Thank you, Hwin,” she said. “Once again, you see so clearly what I cannot. I am sure you are the wisest of mares.” 

Hwin snorted. “I’m sure I don’t know about that.” Her tail swished. “Wipe your eyes, dear. Here come the boys.” 

* * *

_ He who watches for the dawn misses the splendour of the stars. For though the gods have set each star across the sky in a purpose unknown to mankind, the pattern of their dance may still be admired by all. _

\-- Calormene poem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End... almost.   
Tune in next chapter for a deleted scene, because I had too much fun writing it not to include it somehow!


	6. DELETED SCENE: Order of the Table

* * *

She was quite looking forward to meeting King Edmund again, now that she’d heard all about how he’d rescued her brother and been rescued in return. Not to mention the whole knighting business, and the fact that he’d given her brother a title and land to replace that which he’d lost. Which, come to think of it-- “You still need to tell me about how you became a knight.” 

Rishti looked embarrassed. “It was hardly anything at all. It was only a few months after I’d decided to stay. There was a pack of werewolves hounding a settlement near Beruna, which was easily dealt with. And then he just… well, he just sort of sprung it on me.” 

* * *

He started with a warning. “It is not an easy knighthood.”

They were standing in the waist-high grasses a short walk from the settlement. Rishti looked up from cleaning the blade of his scimitar to see Edmund standing a short distance away. The king had already cleaned and sheathed his sword and now stood with his arms crossed, watching the foxes in the distance as they confirmed no werewolves had escaped.

The king did this often, Rishti had learned: expected his conversation partner to be clever enough to interpret the unspoken introductory explanations. 

Rishti wiped the blade once more, then lifted the scimitar to inspect it in the moonlight. “It doesn’t sound particularly glamourous either.”

Edmund blinked, frowned, and looked away from the foxes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“The Noble Order of the  _ Table? _ ” 

“I’ll have you know the Stone Table is a very holy site for Narnians.” 

“I don’t know,” waffled Rishti, “I think I might prefer to hold out for the Noble Order of the Divan. That sounds relaxing. Or maybe the Order of the Bookshelf, except that one might be a bit too scholarly. Perhaps--” 

“You stop that,” warned the king, “Or I might just slice your head off instead of granting you this great honour.” 

But he was grinning, now. Rishti matched his smile and then said seriously, “It  _ is _ a great honour, sire. I don’t know that I deserve it.” 

“Anyone who thinks he deserves a knighthood probably doesn’t,” retorted Edmund. “Particularly not a knighthood into the  _ most esteemed _ Noble Order of the Table. As you so kindly pointed out, it is not as glamourous as Peter’s Order of the Lion. My knights aren’t exactly those who dwell in the sunlight, if you take my meaning.” 

“I’m not sure I do.” 

“Walk with me,” ordered Edmund. Rishti fell in beside him and together they climbed up the hillside. He was reminded suddenly of his first journey with the king, several months and a lifetime ago as they escaped a rebel-controlled town on the western edges of the Calormene empire. The climate here was different, the vegetation more lush, but the incline very much the same. Even so, it was a much easier climb to make when no longer suffering a blow to the head or a fractured foot-bone. 

At the peak, Edmund stopped and gestured out to the horizon. “You know what lies past the river?” 

Even if Rishti had not known, he could have guessed. “The Stone Table. I’ve heard it’s a very holy site for Narnians.” 

“You heard right,” said the king with another grin. Then he sombered. “Have you heard why?” 

“That was where the witch killed the Lion. And, due to his willing sacrifice, the Stone Table cracked and Death itself turned backward. Or so it was told to me.” He’d heard more than that, but would not mention the rest unless the king brought it up first. 

But Edmund merely said, “And from that darkest moment came victory.” He looked out over the land and river, his face inscrutable. “I’m not saying we should go about doing dark things simply because they might lead to an optimal outcome. But sometimes there are dark places, and if we do things there… in the dark…” 

“We might make the world a little brighter?” 

“It sounds horribly naive when put that way, doesn’t it?” He grimaced. “The number of times I’ve tried to explain this, and I’m not sure I ever get it quite right.”

“Maybe you can give me a pamphlet when we return to the castle.” 

“Worry not,” said Edmund, “I have whole chests full of legal definitions, expectations, responsibilities, etcetera etcetera, and I would be more than happy to inflict these upon you at your earliest request.” 

Rishti blanched, and the king laughed. In the distance, Cadenza let out a high pitched bark that was the signal that all werewolves had indeed been accounted for. Their task was done, the settlement was safe, and it was time to descend the hill again. 

They were halfway down when Edmund stopped suddenly. “Oh yes, I’m also giving you a title. Don’t argue with me, I’ve already made up my mind.” 

“What would I do with a title?” 

“I don’t know, probably whatever anyone else does who’s got one. I’m just giving it to you. The rest is your problem.” 

* * *

_ So I became Rishti of Narnia, Knight Companion of the Noble Order of the Table, and Lord of Peridan Falls, though I have never forgotten my origins in Calavar nor my sister, who remains a delight to my eyes. I prayed every day that we would one day reunite and now, at last, the gods of Calormen and the Lion of Narnia have seen fit to grant my prayers and bring us together. _


End file.
